“Don’t be long,” Aimim said. “Be back before midnight.”

“I will,” Dilmir said. “I have to; you know that. I have training tomorrow.”

“It’s cold out,” Aimim said, rummaging in a chest. “Take this.”

She held out what at first seemed to Dilmir to be a shapeless mass of fuzz, but it resolved into a woolen overshirt when Aimim shook it.

Dilmir took the overshirt. It was indeed cold outside, winter fast approaching. “Thanks, Aunt,” he said, turning for the door.

“Be careful,” Aimim said, her words serious.

Dilmir turned back. Aimim was watching him, almost as if debating within herself whether or not she should snatch him back before he opened the door. “I don’t think anyone is waiting outside to attack me,” he said jokingly, trying to ease her mind.

She half-smiled at him. “Of course,” she said.

“But thank you,” Dilmir added.

She smiled again, and he opened the door, leaving. It was indeed cold outside, and he quickly pulled the overshirt on.

It was true: there wasn’t that much reason to worry. Yes, the elves were in general more hostile towards him now than they ever had been, but their actions were limited almost entirely to the training field, where they had no choice but to face him. The rest of the time they just avoided him. Dilmir was used to it.

He stepped down from the door of Aimim’s home, the squat tree which made it enveloped in shadow. Only the windows – which were transparent enchantments – shimmered in place with a soft light all their own, mostly white with hints of green, yellow, and blue. All the houses had the same enchantments for windows, and together they cast small flecks of light across the ground as Dilmir walked, little patches of brightness amidst the shadows of night.

Dilmir didn’t have far to go. There was a sheltered space between the edge of the Upper Quarter and one of the large roots which made up Eld’rin, a small depression in the ground where several elves might sit comfortably.

One elf was in fact already there, and she turned as Dilmir approached.

“Dilmir,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Inilidin,” he replied.

“How was training?” she asked. “I heard you fought Asenir again today.”

News really traveled uncannily fast in Eld’rin.

“It went as you’d expect,” Dilmir said, shrugging. “But he fought Ilrin right after me. I think she made him even madder than last time, if that’s possible.”

Inilidin looked like she was torn between a frown and a smile.

“It’s fine,” Dilmir said, shrugging again. “What can he do? He just doesn’t like being beaten.”

“And he takes it out on you every time you meet,” Inilidin said.

Dilmir waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t mind some cuts or bruises,” he said. It was true. He wasn’t trying to seem brave or anything; Asenir was a lot bigger and stronger than he was. But Dilmir knew he was never in any real danger. He had his magic. That was something Asenir could never beat.

Two years ago, it would have been different. Dilmir would have taken the defeats lying down, hoping maybe Asenir would tire of fighting him and move on to someone else. Now it mattered little to him. Accepting his magic had given him a sense of control over almost every situation, and that in turn made him not care as much if Asenir beat him. It wasn’t a contest anymore. He was better at swordplay than most, and with his magic, that was all that mattered. The past two years had been some of Dilmir’s happiest.

“What about you?” he asked of Inilidin, taking a seat beside her. “How was your day?”

“The same,” Inilidin said.

Dilmir knew what she meant. She was sixteen, meaning her training had entered a very repetitive phase: Magic in the morning, swords in the afternoon. Magic, swords, magic, swords, over and over and over. It got boring quickly. Dilmir had dealt with the boredom by trying to keep his magic hidden, but other elves didn’t have that. For Inilidin, who was neither markedly good or bad at magic or swordplay, it was going to be a monotonous two years of constant practice.

Inilidin was one of those elves who had achieved what Dilmir used to wish for: being invisible. She wasn’t good or bad at anything, spoke softly, and there was nothing remarkable about her appearance. If it hadn’t been for Ilrin, Dilmir never would have noticed her.

Inilidin lived only a few houses away from Ilrin in the lower quarter. Somehow, when Dilmir had been banished two years ago, they had run into each other, and become friends. Now, the two were rarely apart.

“What about your parents?” Dilmir asked. “Still no change?”

Inilidin shook her head.

Dilmir sighed. Most elves were loyal to the Council, and believed what they said about Dilmir’s use of magic. Inilidin’s parents were among these, and so disapproved of what she was doing.

Not that she was doing much. Probably just sitting here talking to him was enough in the eyes of some, but there was more. Eltuthar had taught Dilmir some of the secrets of magic he had uncovered, and in turn, Dilmir had taught these secrets to Ilrin. Inilidin had been interested, so Dilmir had taught her as well, only realizing afterwards that her parents were opposed to her even being seen with him. But the damage had been done, and now Inilidin showed up almost every night, at this same spot, to practice what Dilmir had shown her.

In reality, Eltuthar hadn’t shown Dilmir a whole lot. Dilmir had eventually figured this out for himself, because what Eltuthar had shown him didn’t add up with his tales of the past. Eltuthar had said that because of what he had shown his followers, they had gained powers the Council feared. Eventually the rift between the elves who sought Eltuthar’s secrets and those who feared them had grown too wide, erupting into one of the bloodiest civil wars the elves had ever known. Eltuthar had been Cursed by Sonlen, stripping him of his magic, and most of his followers had abandoned him, returning to Eld’rin or being banished. That had been many years ago.

Obviously, Eltuthar hadn’t wanted to repeat that, because when Dilmir showed up, banished, two years ago, he had taught him only the safest secrets of magic. It irked Dilmir some that Eltuthar hadn’t trusted him, but he supposed it made sense. There were far too many similarities between them; Dilmir couldn’t blame Eltuthar for choosing not to tell him everything.

But the result was that while he had taught Ilrin and Inilidin some secrets of magic, they were really no more powerful than any other elf. The Council conveniently ignored this fact, overreacting as if Dilmir were Eltuthar all over again. At least they’d left him alone for two years. He supposed that was something.

Still, he felt sorry for Inilidin. She was curious about magic, and eager to practice what he had taught her, but she had to do so in secret, her parents having forbidden her from so much as talking to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“It is, sort of,” he said. “My magic started all this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was going to show everyone my magic, and they were supposed to see it for what it was. But the Council is blinded by the past, so—”

“—So it’s their fault,” Ilrin said, approaching out of the darkness. “Not yours.”

Dilmir frowned at her. “You are way too quiet when you move,” he observed.

Ilrin ignored the comment. “It is their fault,” she repeated, looking at him. “You did what you could.”

Dilmir nodded. She was right, as she always was. Still, he felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at Inilidin, still sitting there.

“Endir not here?” Ilrin asked, stretching her arms over her head. Endir was another elf who had been interested in Dilmir’s magic.

Dilmir shook his head. “I haven’t seen him,” he said. “Maybe he couldn’t make it.”

“Close,” said a voice, “but not quite.” Endir materialized out of the night. He was seventeen, tall and wiry, and seemed possessed of a perpetual grin. “I was waylaid,” he said, speaking as if he was retelling an epic tale, “by a force of five sinister dwarven agents, who tried to assassinate me in the dead of night. I only just now escaped.”

“Right,” Dilmir said, grinning as well, “and I’m Alfimir, here to arrest us all.”

Ilrin laughed. Inilidin smiled.

“Shall we get started then?” Endir said, rubbing his hands together.

“You better stay a good five feet away from us,” Ilrin warned him good-naturedly. “Your magic can get a little… exuberant.”

Endir gave her a mock bow and backed up, closer to the root.

What Eltuthar had shown Dilmir was simple for him. He had possessed his power all his life, and had been able to use Eltuthar’s secrets easily. But Ilrin, Endir, and Inilidin, as well as all other elves on Feylund, were Cursed. They needed to practice to make use of Eltuthar’s secrets.

Long ago, when magic was still young, the elders of the elves, fearing the consequences of wielding so much magic, had formed a powerful Curse. This Curse was complicated and inescapable, and they had cast it on the entire Elven race. It limited an elf’s magic to a very small amount, and kept them from having any more. For most elves, the Curse was forgotten, the miniscule amount of magic they had assumed to be normal.

But Dilmir wasn’t Cursed. Somehow, his predecessors had escaped being Cursed. Eltuthar, Dilmir’s oldest living relative, had been the first to use his full power in centuries. The Civil War had been the result. Eltuthar’s descendants had been more careful, controlling their power and keeping it hidden, but Dilmir had always struggled. He had always felt his magic, seething and boiling within him, and finally, two years ago, he hadn’t been able to keep it in any longer. He had been banished as a result, gone to Eltuthar, and there learned the secrets Ilrin and the others were now about to use.

Eltuthar had taught him exactly one thing he had not known: that magic could enchant energy. At Eld’rin, it was taught that magic could only enchant living things. While Dilmir had taken to the lessons easily, for a Cursed elf, they were hard to master. And that was why he met with Ilrin, Inilidin, and Endir, almost every night after dinner: to practice.

He of course didn’t need to be there. They knew everything they needed to; now it was just a matter of endless repetition. But Dilmir himself had things to practice. He had tried to ignore his magic until Eltuthar had convinced him to use it. As a result, he was still learning everything he could do.

They took up positions around the small space, Endir and Dilmir keeping their distance, Ilrin and Inilidin in the middle, practicing together. Dilmir closed his eyes, a smile escaping him, and plunged into his magic. He had been looking forward to this all day.

Power rose and fell within Dilmir, crashing within him with the force of waves on rocks. He could feel it: nearly nineteen years of accumulated magic, just waiting to be released, waiting to shape the world as he wanted. Dilmir relished the feeling. He liked his power, not because it made him different, but simply because he didn’t have to worry about being the same as everyone else. Those days were gone.

Dilmir raised his hand, and let his power rush out of him. It flooded into the ground at his feet, working its way in and around the dirt, stones, and roots which made it up. Magic was bound to energy, and energy was heat, meaning Dilmir’s magic could go anywhere. He could feel his magic in the ground, feel the roots, the small worms and insects in the ground, all of it.

Cursed elves needed to cast spells, but Dilmir didn’t. He was in complete control of the magic and everything it touched. With a thought, he caused the ground before him to rise up, held aloft by roots, pushed upwards as if some great burrowing beast had surfaced. To do the same, a Cursed elf would have to prepare at least twenty spells and fire them into the ground individually, making sure they struck the correct roots. And even then, the result wouldn’t be the same. Once a spell was fired, the elf lost control over it. Not so Dilmir. Even now, he still controlled the roots and the earth they held, causing them to slide back into the ground, replacing it seamlessly where it had been.

Technically, a Cursed elf could do everything he could. But Dilmir could do it faster, with much more precision, and all at once. And he was always in control. He could feel not only his own magic, but that of Ilrin and Inilidin, struggling to cast basic enchantments, and Endir, going overboard in the opposite direction, producing highly combustible spells. If he let his magic continue to flow outwards, he could feel the magic of every elf in the Upper Quarter, and at least half of the Lower Quarter. His magic had its limits, but he had never needed to test them.

As he continued to experiment, he could feel the others nearby. Elves were trained to enchant living things, like trees. Eltuthar had taught him that energy could be enchanted, which meant the very heat in the air could be made to glow with light or produce fire. But doing so was such a foreign concept to Cursed elves, that even Ilrin, who had been practicing for two years, had trouble. Dilmir had to admit he couldn’t imagine being unable to enchant the air. If he wanted to conjure a green sphere of light, he just… did it. Even now, the limitations of the Curse continued to surprise him.

The Curse. Eltuthar wanted more than anything to lift it, but it had defied his every attempt. The Council blamed Eltuthar for the Civil War, but he blamed the Curse, and Dilmir agreed with him. The Curse had blinded the elves, and made them shun their true power. Only by lifting it could they ensure another Civil War never happened.

Dilmir stretched his magic towards Ilrin, feeling her own, merging with it. She could feel him, and glanced towards him briefly, but then turned back to Inilidin. He had done this countless times before.

Within her, he could feel the Curse, an overly-complicated web of magic which had no right to be there. It wasn’t just a simple enchantment; it was woven into her energy, her very magic, limiting everything she did. Dilmir explored it for a time, trying various things to dispel it, but none of them worked. It was always the same way, his magic slipping off of it, repelled by some ancient countermeasure.

They practiced magic for two hours, but no one wanted to stay too late. They all had training early in the morning, and would have to get up before dawn just to be there on time. Inilidin was the first to leave, Endir soon following. Ilrin stopped shortly after, yawning and stretching.

“I think I’m done,” she called to Dilmir.

Dilmir reeled his magic in, absorbing it back into himself like water rushing to fill an empty pool. It only took half a second.

“All right,” he said. “Walk you back?”

It was a silly question; Dilmir always walked her back to the middle of Eld’rin. But Ilrin nodded anyway, and they set off together, weaving between the homes of the Upper Quarter.  It was cold, but peaceful, and his use of magic had left Dilmir feeling calm and relaxed.

Those feelings all fled as they turned a corner, and found themselves face to face with an elf. This elf wore a cloak and hood, but Dilmir could see his face: pallid, stark against the black of his hood. Alfimir.

Alfimir was the elves’ only archmage. As such, he was permitted to study and use magic most others were not, in exchange for his protection of all elves. Many in Eld’rin respected and looked up to him. Dilmir had once, too, but that had been before Alfimir had decided that he was a threat and tried to kill him. They had clashed more than once, Alfimir even attacking Ilrin in an attempt to get Dilmir to fight back.

All of this made Dilmir hate Alfimir. But it was what Eltuthar had revealed to him which caused his magic to boil, yearning to strike at the archmage. Alfimir had deemed Eltuthar’s entire line a threat to the elves – Uncursed as they were – and had hunted them down. Dilmir’s parents had managed to escape him, which was why Dilmir was here at all. But his grandparents, Eltuthar’s son and his wife, had been mercilessly slaughtered by Alfimir after the Civil War. And he had tried to do the same to Dilmir’s parents, and Dilmir himself, when he realized he was related to Eltuthar.

It was understandable, therefore, that they both froze, Dilmir’s magic ready to be unleashed.

“Dilmir,” Alfimir said after a moment.

“Alfimir,” Dilmir replied, calm despite the circumstance. Ilrin said nothing, standing well away from the two.

“Are you planning on killing me tonight?” Dilmir asked calmly. Alfimir was an archmage, but Dilmir was more powerful. They had fought before, but Dilmir had learned much since then.

“No,” Alfimir said, just as calm. They both slowly relaxed.

“Why are you here, then?” Dilmir asked. “I thought the Council decided to leave me alone.”

“Wandering Eld’rin is my business,” Alfimir said quietly. “Running into you was an unfortunate mishap.”

The Council ruled Eld’rin, and was responsible for enforcing its laws. Alfimir reported to them. Together, they were responsible for much of the ill-will felt towards Dilmir. But that didn’t mean Alfimir was about to outright attack Dilmir, even if he might want to. The Council was bound by its own laws, and the law said that no elf could be attacked within Eld’rin. The Council of course made a habit out of bending the rules, but they couldn’t break them.

Dilmir knew all this. When his first banishment was lifted and he returned to Eld’rin, he knew the Council would try to get rid of him for good. They couldn’t do it themselves, so they hired an assassin to kill him while he slept.

Dilmir had been ready. He had laced so many enchantments around his house, that the assassin was caught and rendered helpless before he could even slip through the doorway. Dilmir had found him the next morning, and exposed him.

Hiring an assassin was seen as underhanded and cowardly, and the elves didn’t tolerate the practice. The Council and Alfimir had come under suspicion, and had nearly caught the blame, but had wormed their way out in the end. But the message had been clear: Dilmir was ready for the Council.

From that day forward, they had left each other alone. Dilmir had refrained from doing anything too extravagant with his magic, and the Council and Alfimir had generally avoided him. Dilmir liked it that way.

Alfimir and Dilmir remained silent, watching each other. Once, Dilmir had been afraid of Alfimir. But now he was in control, and waited calmly.

“Have you heard from Eltuthar recently?” Alfimir asked.

Dilmir’s control slipped slightly. “No,” he said, surprised at the question. “Why?”

“The Council likes to keep tabs on those who have caused wars in the past,” Alfimir said coolly.

“Then you still haven’t found him,” Dilmir surmised. After Dilmir’s banishment was retracted, Eltuthar had fled, knowing that no such fate awaited him. He had long been branded an enemy of the elves, and would be slain if found. He had whisked away Dilmir’s parents to safety before Alfimir could find them, and had been on the run ever since. Dilmir hadn’t heard from him for two years, but could only assume that meant he was still alive.

“No,” Alfimir said. “We have not found him.” He continued to watch Dilmir.

“What do you want?” Dilmir finally asked again.

“You are Eltuthar over again,” Alfimir finally said, speaking slowly. “You teach elves magic against the Councils’ wishes.”

“I have yet to start a war, though,” Dilmir reminded him.

Alfimir nodded slowly. “So far,” he said. “But Eltuthar didn’t mean to start a war either, and it happened nonetheless. You are him over again, and I fear another war will follow you soon enough.”

But Dilmir had heard enough. He was tired of the Councils’ constant fears that he would turn into another Eltuthar. He had proven them wrong for two years, but still they believed it, blinded by fear.

He shoved past Alfimir, pulling Ilrin with him. Alfimir let them go, a dark figure in a darker night. Some day, they would see the truth. Dilmir wasn’t Eltuthar.

Dilmir locked blades with his opponent, both hands gripping the hilt, the low sun flashing off of the swords. He got a better grip and pushed, sending his opponent’s sword back and up, leaving its owner defenseless. A quick flick of the wrist, and Dilmir’s sword was at his opponent’s neck, claiming victory.

They both stepped away, lowering their swords. They were the first to finish; about them, elves continued to duel, swords flashing in and out, bodies ducking and lunging. Elves generally trained with either a single partner or a specific trainer, but occasionally the trainers would pit them all against each other. It was useful to face a different opponent every now and then. Dilmir had been facing a rotating selection of adversaries since noon, and now the sun was nearing the horizon.

Despite this, he wasn’t tired. Partly, this was due to the fact that he had trained far harder than this in past years. But mostly, it was because he found the duels too easy. He had been beaten over and over by Ilrin for nearly five years, with the result that now, when he finally faced a new opponent, his skill far outmatched theirs. It seemed that Ilrin was so skilled with the blade that, merely by fighting her, Dilmir himself had gotten far better at handling a sword than most elves his age.

It was a welcome relief, actually being good at swordplay for once. Dilmir was able to relax more during training, and actually learn the finer points of swordplay, rather than just duel for his life every time. He still got beaten from time to time, of course. His trainer, Erundil, was a master of the blade, and could easily punish Dilmir for a moment’s loss of concentration. And whenever he fought Ilrin, the duel could go either way. But for most everyone else, Dilmir was able to beat them easily.

But not all of them. Dilmir glanced sideways, seeing who his next opponent was, and felt his heart sink. Asenir.

Asenir was big for an elf, stocky and strong. Dilmir was almost convinced he was part human. He put his strength to good use, wielding a heavy axe in place of the usual Elvish sword. One blow from his weapon could knock aside any defense, leaving his opponent open and vulnerable. The only way Dilmir would be able to beat him was by avoiding his blows and sneaking one of his own in. Ilrin was good at that kind of thing, but not Dilmir. His strength lay in solid, measured strikes, and both he and Asenir knew it. Matched against each other, Asenir would almost always win.

Dilmir switched his sword from hand to hand, watching Asenir, trying to gauge how tired he was. For four years, Dilmir had trained with the traditional Elvish sword, but now that he was approaching his last year of training, he had been allowed to craft his own weapon.

Once they mastered the Elvish blade, elves chose a personal weapon, designed to fit their strengths and make up for their weaknesses. Dilmir’s strength in swordplay was his balance, control, and precision. Some elves liked to dance around as they fought, dodging this way and that, weaving forward and backward. Dilmir preferred to stand his ground, locked firmly into a single stance, overpowering his foe with consistent, well-placed strikes.

His chosen blade therefore was thicker and heavier than most others, giving him more power behind each blow. It had a long wooden hilt, allowing room for Dilmir to grip it with both hands if he wanted. It was shorter than other swords, but that gave Dilmir greater control over it, allowing him to strike harder and faster.

With the sword came a single bracer for Dilmir’s left arm. It was a single plate of thin metal, woven with leather straps. A tarrenith, it was called. It reached from just behind Dilmir’s knuckles, all the way to his elbow. The metal was thin, not enough to stop a blade, but that was not its purpose. Dilmir could use it to deflect a blow to the side, causing an enemy’s guard to open up wide. Against enemies with swords, the tarrenith was quite effective. But Dilmir couldn’t block something heavy, like Asenir’s axe. He’d break every bone in his arm.

“Switch!” called the trainer.

Everyone stopped dueling, finished or not, and moved to their left. They were in two lines, facing each other, meaning every time they switched, they faced a new opponent. Asenir coolly stepped in front of Dilmir.

He was tired, Dilmir could see that. He had been swinging that heavy axe for nearly half the day, and he was already breathing a little heavily. But he wasn’t winded. One good strike from his weapon and Dilmir’s sword would be wrenched from his hand. Dilmir’s only chance would be to avoid his blows – the one thing he was worst at. He got a better grip on his sword.

“Begin!” came the command.

No one immediately began dueling. The first few seconds of any fight were always about searching for weaknesses: shifts in balance, unprotected areas, that sort of thing. Slowly, the more aggressive elves began attacking, first with feints, then with real strikes.

Asenir was one of these. He quickly sized Dilmir up, and then swung his axe at his left side, knowing Dilmir couldn’t block it with his tarrenith. Dilmir leapt back to avoid the blow, now too far away to deliver one of his own, and Asenir stepped forward, now swinging at Dilmir’s right side.

He would keep advancing if Dilmir let him, so he did the opposite of what was expected: he stepped forward, inside of the arc of Asenir’s axe, using his sword to keep it from biting into his shoulder. He and Asenir were practically face-to-face now, and Dilmir took advantage of this, backfisting Asenir across the side of the head with his tarrenith. No one took minor injuries seriously. They were easily healed.

Asenir did not stumble back as Dilmir had expected. He took one step back, but recovered quickly. He gripped his axe with both hands, shifted his weight, and swung it cleanly into Dilmir’s side.

Dilmir blocked the blow with his sword, but it didn’t matter. The axe was so heavy that its haft slammed into him anyway, knocking him off his feet. He landed on the ground a moment later, his side blazing with pain.

Asenir lowered his axe so that the tip was resting against Dilmir’s neck. He didn’t say anything; just stood there, keeping Dilmir down, looking at him as if daring him to get back up.

It had always been this way between them. In fact, it was this way between Dilmir and most elves. His power wasn’t a secret anymore. The Council was afraid of his magic, so they called it unnatural or dark. Most elves were loyal to the Council, and believed what they said without a second thought. Thus it was that Dilmir often found himself in this situation during a duel: at the end of a blade, held by an elf who disliked him, seeing him as different, some sort of threat.

“Switch!” the trainer called.

Asenir slowly removed his axe from Dilmir’s neck and moved to his left. Dilmir got up and did the same.

“Athen,” he muttered, passing his hand over his side. The pain dulled, but didn’t go away. Healing injuries had never been one of Dilmir’s strong suits. He’d have to get Ilrin to do it properly.

Dilmir stretched his arms above his head briefly, keeping his shoulders loose, and then settled into his normal defensive stance. He knew his new opponent to be horrible with the sword; this would be a quick fight.

Sure enough, the trainer had barely called, “Begin!” before Dilmir had lunged forward and disarmed his opponent with a single stroke. He rested his sword briefly against the elf’s neck, signifying he had won, and then stepped back, waiting to switch again.

Asenir was two spaces down from Dilmir, which meant he was now dueling Ilrin. Dilmir tried to suppress a grin as he watched. Ilrin’s style was almost perfectly designed to counter that of Asenir. She had seen how he had kept Dilmir down, and she was toying with him now, avoiding his every blow, and repeatedly nicking him. She could end the duel at any time, but she seemed to be bent on punishing him instead.

Asenir grew more and more furious with every touch of Ilrin’s sword, his swings becoming wider and less controlled. She continued to dance out of his way, her counterattacks becoming fancier and fancier.

“Match up!” the trainer called, a bit sooner than normal. Perhaps he too was watching Asenir, and feared he might lose it completely.

‘Match up’ meant the elves should match up with their original partners. The line the elves had been holding disintegrated, elves pairing off. Ilrin finally let Asenir go, keeping her sword pointing at his throat a little longer than was strictly necessary, and walked over to Dilmir.

“You enjoyed that,” Dilmir murmured to her as she approached.

“Not particularly,” Ilrin replied, her voice equally quiet. “I just get tired of him.”

Dilmir knew what she meant. Asenir was a bully, using his strength to push the other elves around. Only Ilrin could reliably defeat him, and she took every opportunity to do so.

“Plus,” Ilrin said, “I didn’t like how he held you down.”

There it was, the real reason. Dilmir smiled despite himself. Ilrin seemed to take it personally whenever an elf showed their dislike for him.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Dilmir said, quickly rearranging his features into a blanker mask.

“Begin!”

They stepped apart, bringing their swords up. For her weapon, Ilrin had chosen the thinnest of Elven blades. It was long and slender, allowing it to sneak through the smallest gap. It was also light, which let her move and dodge other blows with ease. She was fast, and almost impossible to defend against. Dilmir knew her weakness lay in getting her sword locked against another, but that was unlikely when she was so fast.

However, Dilmir knew how she fought by now. Blocking her strikes was almost second nature to him. That was why, when she lunged forward, he was able to leap aside, easily deflecting her blow with his tarrenith. Her sword went wide, leaving her wide open.

Dilmir struck, almost half-heartedly, knowing that he would never make it. Sure enough, Ilrin spun out of the way, lightly moving his sword aside with her own. Dilmir set his feet, knowing his strength lay in holding his ground, and began swinging at Ilrin. The sword strokes were measured and powerful; she couldn’t block them. She was forced to dodge them instead, the constant motion keeping her from attacking him.

Eventually she snuck her sword under his guard, but as always, Dilmir was ready for it. He swung his blade low, catching hers as it snuck forward, wrenching it to the side. Ilrin was pulled forward slightly, allowing Dilmir to flick his sword up to her neck before she could escape.

He was getting better at beating her. Despite their different styles, he won nearly half of their matches now.

Ilrin disengaged gracefully, stepping back. “Your third swing was slow,” she said.

“Right.” Dilmir smiled. “That’s why I won.”

She smiled back.

“That’s enough!” the trainer called, ending the duels. Slowly, the other elves stepped apart. Asenir’s opponent was on the ground. Again.

The sun had touched the horizon, and the shadows cast by the massive trees of Eld’rin were getting too long. The entire training field was in darkness now, rendering blades almost invisible. There was something to be said for training in the darkness, but at some point the elves had to admit they couldn’t go on.

“That’s all for today,” the trainer said, addressing them all. “Your trainers will be waiting for you tomorrow afternoon.”

Dilmir sighed. He liked dueling Ilrin, but it was something he rarely got to do. Usually he dueled only his trainer, Erundil. Tomorrow he’d be back at it.

Slowly, the assembled elves began to trickle towards the entrance of Eld’rin.

“Are you hurt?” Ilrin asked. “I saw Asenir hit you hard.”

“Here,” Dilmir said, pointing to where the haft of Asenir’s axe had slammed into his ribs. “Just a bit.” He wasn’t one to ask anyone – even Ilrin – to heal his various injuries from training, preferring to do it himself. But since he and Ilrin had both turned eighteen and started their second-to-last year of training, there was no point in trying to deny her. She was just better at healing than he was.

She was training to become a Lifeformer, an elf who studied how magic affected living things. Lifeformers had grown Eld’rin from the ground up, and they were also healers, knowing how the body went together, and being able to heal it to near-perfection as a result.

Ilrin murmured some complicated line of Elvish Dilmir missed, and he felt his pain evaporate instantly. “Thanks,” he said, watching as Asenir finally left the field, axe on his shoulder.

Ilrin saw who he was watching. “He’s not worth it,” she said.

Dilmir knew what she meant, but said nothing.

“You have friends,” Ilrin said. “That’s enough. You can’t make all the elves like you.”

“I don’t need them all to like me,” Dilmir said, still watching the retreating form of Asenir. “I just wish they didn’t hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” Ilrin said. “They’re just afraid of you.”

“That’s worse.” Dilmir finally looked at her.

She shrugged. “You can’t have everyone be your friend, Dilmir,” she said. “You’ve done your bit. Let them make up their own minds about you.”

Dilmir nodded, knowing she was right. She put her hand in his, and he let her lead him away from the field, towards the gates of Eld’rin. He wished the elves saw his magic as he did, but they didn’t, and that was unlikely to ever change.

Two years ago, when he had still been trying to hide his magic, that would have bothered him. He had wanted everyone to see him as normal. Now… things were different. He didn’t hide his magic, and the elves showed their dislike of him plainly, but somehow, it didn’t matter. Ilrin was right. Dilmir had done what he could. The elves’ reactions were their own.

Still, he wished something would change.

The land of Morindan was darkness. The days were bleak, sunlight seeming to struggle to reach the barren ground, leaving it gray and shadowed. The nights were a shroud, a cloak of blindness stretched across the land. The ground itself was but dirt and rock, its surface cracked and covered with an endless field of dust. What trees had once dared to grow there were now little more than bare limbs struggling upwards from the dried earth, their tips shattered, their wood long dead. No color lived there, no green of grass or blue of sky. All was gray; shadows or the deepest of blacks.

Morindan was silent. It was a dead land, and the dead claimed it, but now it was empty. Its barren plains were lifeless, its horizon unmarked by movement. Normally, the undead would have called it home. Zombies would have stumbled across it, doing the bidding of whatever dark mind had risen them. Vampires would have flown through the gray skies, watching for any sign of fresh life. But not so now. Now, Morindan was empty, both of the living and the dead.

There was only one place in the land where movement could still be found, the one place where all the vampires, zombies, and other foul creatures of night had gathered: Cyprien’s castle.

The castle jutted from the landscape perpendicularly, defiant of the flatness around it. The grounds about it hummed, not with life, but with an aura of death and decay, for here were gathered all the denizens of Morindan, the undead milling about in one mindless mass, stumbling and staggering blindly. Around the castle, vampires flew, their numbers impossible to count against the black of the night.

The full moon was the only source of light, its rays illuminating the dark castle. The shadowed stones of the citadel seemed to soak up the light, the towers and walls standing against the moon in silhouette, their blackness stark against the moon’s brilliance.

One of these towers, one of the highest in fact, possessed but one window, allowing the moonlight in. The room illuminated by the light was small, only big enough to fit five or six shuffling zombies across. Not that any would be allowed here.

The walls were of dark stone, and no tapestries or other decoration hung upon them. Countless wooden tables, desks, and chests were scattered about the room, but these were all covered in a thick layer of dust.

The center of the room was the only clear space, the chests and dust having been swept aside. Etched in the center of the stone floor was a deeply carved circle – just a plain circle – its outline black with shadow, despite the moonlight which touched it.

Cyprien Essenwein, lord of Morindan, watched as the moonlight began to cover more and more of the circle. He was arrayed in the garb of royalty: a deeply red tunic, shrouded by a black cape. Across from him, separated by the circle, Sonya stood, wearing similar clothing. Only the best raiment for such an occasion.

Cyprien was lord of the night, and rightly feared by all he hunted, but Sonya inspired an entirely different kind of fear. While Cyprien was known for his bloodlust, his unmatched skill in battle, and his ruthlessness, Sonya was feared for her subtlety and ability to plan. The elves feared Cyprien for the battles he had fought against them, but it had been Sonya who had orchestrated some of his greatest victories.

The moonlight now covered half of the circle on the floor. Cyprien watched its slow progress, his excitement growing with each inch the light covered. The time was very close now, very close…

Sonya stepped forward, her black cape shifting as she moved, revealing for a moment the red gown she wore for the occasion. In one graceful stride she was within the circle, feet close together. She looked at Cyprien, and smiled.

Cyprien stepped forward, joining her in the circle. It wasn’t big, large enough only for them to stand comfortably within, about a foot apart. Cyprien could almost feel Sonya’s excitement radiating off of her, his own anticipation mounting with hers. They had waited for this night to come for years, so many years, and now it was nearly upon them…  

The moonlight finally touched the last of the circle, and instantly the room was plunged into blackness. This was no shroud of night, but deep, dark magic. Not even Cyprien could see, a sensation he was unused to, and quickly decided he didn’t like.

He could feel Sonya in front of him, standing still as he was. They waited, and the darkness seemed to thicken, probing them, testing them. And then everything was still, muffled and cut off as if a thick cloth had been cast over the world. It was time.

A sound reached Cyprien, seeming distant at first, but then swelling in volume. It was Sonya: she was singing.

Cyprien had never heard her sing. There was no real tune to the words, but her voice was soft, and the words seemed to flow together. They were in an ancient tongue, and their meaning mostly escaped Cyprien. However, he knew each one of them by heart. He took a breath, and joined Sonya in song, the practice unfamiliar to his tongue.

It couldn’t be said that they made a good duet, but the words they sang were powerful, the darkness about them seeming to quiver as they continued. It wasn’t a long song, and they ended soon after, silence taking the room once more. Still, the thick darkness persisted, blinding Cyprien.

And then he felt… a thing. The darkness between them constricted, and… something appeared. Cyprien couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, like a presence watching him, somehow coming into being between him and Sonya.

Sonya knelt, reaching out to the presence, and Cyprien knelt with her. Instantly, the shroud of silence about the room lifted, and Cyprien could just make out Sonya’s silhouette before him. The darkness was slowly fading.

He could still see little more than Sonya’s outline, but there seemed to be a patch of extra dark shadow between them, somehow cupped in Sonya’s hands. Cyprien reached out, and felt again that presence, the undeniable feeling that there was another being in the room with them.

He held his hand out to it, and felt a wave of cold as the shadow touched him. Sensations flashed across his mind: curiosity, hunger, drive… he smiled.

“My daughter,” Sonya whispered, bending low over the shadow and blowing gently on it.

Cyprien copied her, bending low and blowing softly on the presence. “My daughter,” he breathed.

The presence seemed to swell as they spoke, but then shrank, somehow condensing further until it was small enough to swim within the bowl of Sonya’s hands.

“My daughter,” she whispered to it, “I name you… Iskra.”

The thing in her hand quivered.

“Sleep now,” Sonya breathed.

The shadow swirled for a moment, and then somehow funneled inside of Sonya, slipping through her skin like water through a cloth. Cyprien could still feel it, the presence, now slumbering within Sonya.

Together they rose, Sonya smiling, Cyprien himself feeling his mouth twitch.

A violent hammering came from the one small door into the room, and the remaining darkness shattered like the shards of a broken mirror. Cyprien’s peace shattered with it, rage instantly taking its place. Who would dare to interrupt this, the most sacred of rituals?

He strode to the door and flung it open, already grasping for his knife.

“My lord,” said the vampire at the door, visibly paling – despite his skin already being as pallid as the moon above – at the sight of Cyprien’s rage. “Aranthar requests an audience.”

Cyprien’s arm froze midway into unsheathing his dagger. His rage stumbled, confusion taking its place. And yes, perhaps a hint of fear. Aranthar? Here? Now?

Cyprien shoved past the vampire without a word, his black cloak billowing behind him as he strode down the hall. The vampire followed, taking the first doorway which presented itself, eager to escape from Cyprien’s wrath.

But Cyprien’s anger had cooled. What could Aranthar be doing here? Cyprien hadn’t expected him for another few months. Had something gone wrong? Had the plan changed? Cyprien frowned. The vampire had been right to alert him about Aranthar’s approach, of course. But still, to interrupt the birth of his daughter, the birth of Iskra…

Iskra. Cyprien’s thoughts cooled at the name. Already the house of Essenwein was feared; she would continue its legacy. Vampires were brought into the world fully formed, having all the knowledge they would ever need to possess. There was only one thing they lacked: a body.

Vampires were pure spirit. They needed the physical body of another to truly interact with the world. This body acted as a shell, a housing for the vampiric spirit, channeling its strength and power. Most of Cyprien’s vampires inhabited the bodies of dead elves or men, slain in combat. But for his daughter… only a live body would do.

Inhabiting a live body was a sign of strength for a vampire. It showed that they possessed the willpower to overcome the mind of another, and having a live body meant that it did not decay and weaken over time, as a dead one would. But not just any body would do. Iskra was an Essenwein, and Cyprien would need to find a special body for her, one which the elves either trusted, or looked up to, or perhaps feared. A symbol. That’s what Iskra needed.

Cyprien finally reached the bottom of a winding staircase, and threw open the door to the courtyard below. There Aranthar stood, at the head of at least a hundred zombies.

Aranthar was an elf. Not a zombie elf, not a vampiric elf, just a plain, living elf. His hair was gray, but he wore armor and carried himself upright. His cloak was tattered, and his sword, devoid of any sheath, was stained black with age. Behind him, the zombies stumbled idly in place, bumping into each other or just standing still, limbs hanging limp.

“Cyprien,” he said calmly.

“Aranthar,” Cyprien replied, not quite able to keep the distaste from his voice. They might be allies, but Aranthar was still an elf, and Cyprien hated elves. The weak, tree-loving, magic-obsessed—

“Perhaps we could speak inside?” Aranthar suggested, cutting Cyprien’s thoughts short.

Cyprien nodded curtly, standing aside for Aranthar. The elf stepped into the hallway, and then waited politely for Cyprien to take the lead. Cyprien did so, keeping up a brisk pace, taking Aranthar through several extra halls and rooms, trying to show off as much of his castle as he reasonably could.

They finally came to a small room, containing a simple table and two wooden chairs. Cyprien offered one to Aranthar, which he did not take.

“The land grows barren, Aranthar,” Cyprien said, choosing to remain standing as well. “All of Morindan is sucked dry, the air as chill as the far north. Why?”

“I had need of the land’s magic,” Aranthar said simply.

“Morindan’s?” Cyprien repeated. “You’ve already taken the magic from the whole of Annelintia. What could you possibly need that much magic for?” His eyes narrowed. “What manner of curse are you weaving?” he asked.

“That is not your concern,” Aranthar said.

Cyprien yearned to strike the elf down where he stood for that comment, but restrained himself. He needed Aranthar. “Why have you come?” he said instead.

“I have brought you an army,” Aranthar said, his tone as calm as if remarking on the weather. “An army to destroy Eld’rin.”

Cyprien was instantly suspicious. “The undead you were with?” he guessed.

Aranthar nodded.

“And… why not lead them yourself? Why give this army to me?”

“Unfortunately,” Aranthar said, “I cannot yet stray far from Annelintia. My… work is not yet complete there. My control over the undead can only extend so far, but Eld’rin must fall, so I give them to you, to lead in my stead.”

Cyprien nodded. That made sense enough. A reanimated zombie was controlled directly by the mind of the vampire or mage who had reanimated it. A mind’s influence could stretch for miles, but not indefinitely. Annelintia was a long ways from Eld’rin.

However, Cyprien was used to the traps of elves, and he immediately spotted two problems. “I appreciate your offer, Aranthar,” he said, “but I saw only a hundred or so undead with you. Zombies are weak, and easily slain. It would take a force of thousands to overrun Eld’rin.”

Aranthar nodded. “True, but these are no normal undead. I have enchanted them with magic, giving them the strength of twelve men. A single blow from them will crush an elf. Additionally, they possess a shield, a magical barrier around each one of them. This barrier is unbreachable. They are immune to both spell and blade.”

“I – Immune?” Cyprien repeated.

“Immune,” Aranthar confirmed. “Completely.”

Cyprien quickly recovered himself. “Very well,” he said, “but why now? I thought we weren’t to move on the elves for another few months. Are your preparations done already?”

“No,” Aranthar said shortly. “However, I have been forced to begin the attack early. I have learned, from my spies amongst the elves, that one among them intends to lift the Curse.”

Cyprien was no elf, but he knew of the Curse. A piece of magic which determined if the elves won or lost against him? Oh yes, he made it his business to know about such things.

“Lift the Curse?” Cyprien repeated. “Is that even possible?”

Aranthar shrugged. “Certainly it’s possible,” he said. “Anything is possible. Is it likely? No. But it is a threat nonetheless.”

“And this elf,” Cyprien said. “You have… caught him, I assume? Killed him?”

“Unfortunately,” Aranthar said, “my agents can’t even find him. None of the elves can. He is a master of remaining hidden. If I could find him, I would kill him, but sadly that is not an option. Thus, I need to attack Eld’rin.” He continued at Cyprien’s frown. “Eld’rin is the center of the elves’ kingdom,” he explained. “It’s the head. Remove the head, and the remaining villages will be without a unified voice telling them what to do. It will be chaos. And if you are there, leading an unbeatable undead army, that chaos will be even greater.

“If, by chance, the one elf should manage to lift the Curse, he will have no king, no Elvish Council to go to. No one to spread the countercurse for him. He will have to do this himself, and it will be very difficult with all the elves in disarray. By attacking and destroying Eld’rin, I’m buying myself some time, and time is all I need to complete my work. He might lift the Curse on a few elves, but these are of no concern.”

“Why?” Cyprien said. “Surely an elf without the Curse is a danger to us all?”

“Not quite,” Aranthar said, smiling slightly.

Cyprien hated that smile. “Very well,” he said. “I will lead this army for you. And what happens after Eld’rin?”

“By all means,” Aranthar said, moving for the door, “continue rampaging amongst the elves. Just try to keep them contained,” he added. “I wouldn’t want to miss any stragglers when I arrive. Oh,” he added, turning at the door, “one last thing: I have agents in Eld’rin. They will tell you when to attack. If you wait to attack until they say, your victory will be easy.”

Cyprien frowned. “And otherwise?” he asked, tiring of the elf’s mysterious words.

“You’ll still win,” Aranthar assured. “It will just be more… difficult. Trust me. Wait for my agents.”

Cyprien nodded after a moment. He hated Aranthar’s superior ways, but he wouldn’t decline such an offer. “Very well,” he said. “I will lead your army, and I will wait for your… agents.”

“Very good,” Aranthar said. “I must return to Annelintia, but I will join you in a few months’ time. Try to keep some elves alive for me.”

Not likely, Cyprien thought as Aranthar left. He had been at war with the elves for over two centuries. If he had a chance to finally destroy them, he would take it. He strode to the only window set in the wall, and looked out at the darkness of Morindan. A smile flitted across his face.

First Iskra, and now an unbeatable army. The elves didn’t stand a chance.

This is a recap of the events of Dilmir: A Tale of Feylund.

Dilmir was a normal elf of Feylund. He lived in Eld’rin, the elvish capital, where he practiced magic and swordplay like any other elf. His parents lived in a far village, and sent him to Eld’rin to receive his training. He lived with his aunt. There was nothing strange or different about him.

Or so he would have the other elves believe.

The truth was that Dilmir was the wielder of far more magic than any other elf. On his way to Eld’rin, the caravan he was with was ambushed by wolves – the protectors of the forest. Without thinking, Dilmir unleashed his magic at them. The battle was quickly won, but his secret was out.

The news of Dilmir’s unnatural power troubled the Council – the ruling body in Eld’rin. While Dilmir had broken no laws, they feared that the mere presence of his power would cause him to follow in Eltuthar’s footsteps.

Eltuthar had been at Eld’rin long ago, not unlike Dilmir himself. He, too, had possessed strange magic, and had begun experimenting. One thing had led to another, and when the Council demanded he cease his practices, he had refused, and civil war had erupted between those loyal to him and his magic, and those loyal to the Council. The battle ended when Sonlen, archmage of Eld’rin, placed a powerful curse on Eltuthar, draining his magic. Most believe Eltuthar died that day, but Sonlen, for reasons unknown, let him escape into the forest.

Rumors of his magic had reached Eld’rin by the time Dilmir arrived at the city. The memory of Eltuthar still fresh in their minds, nearly all the elves shunned him. Some saw him as possessing dark magic, others as just being different. Dilmir swore to never use his magic again, but he couldn’t take back what was done.

Only one elf befriended him: another student at the city by the name of Ilrin. A natural adept at the blade, Ilrin took pity on Dilmir, and resolved to not let him grow up in Eld’rin friendless. The two became inseparable.

Meanwhile, Eld’rin had a new archmage since Sonlen had died: Alfimir. Alfimir had once been a student of Eltuthar, but had renounced his teachings as dark magic, and sworn to purge them from Feylund. To this end, he hunted down Eltuthar’s line, killing his descendants without mercy. However, Alfimir had been careless, and one family had escaped his crusade.

That family was Dilmir’s.

Unknown to Alfimir, Dilmir was the direct descendent of Eltuthar. This was a secret Dilmir told no one, not even Ilrin, for if the Council ever found it, they would consider it evidence of his dark intentions, and take action immediately.

Unfortunately, Alfimir realized he had missed someone, and soon traced the final descendent to Dilmir. He arrived at Eld’rin at dusk, confronted Dilmir, and tried to slay him.

He never succeeded. By some unknown magic, Dilmir found himself transported behind Alfimir, out of harm’s way. Both Dilmir and Alfimir were shocked at what had happened, and by the time they recollected themselves, other elves had arrived.

Alfimir was employed by the Council, but his methods had to remain subtle. No one could know that the Council was willing to quietly assassinate elves they deemed a threat. For this reason, Alfimir was led away, arrested for trying to kill an elf, one of the worst of offenses. The Council’s hands were tied, and Alfimir was banished from Eld’rin.

Having failed to kill Dilmir once, the Council turned to less-savory means. They hired an assassin (something no self-respecting elf would dream of) to kill Dilmir. The assassin failed however, when Dilmir used his magic against him. Now Dilmir knew the Council was trying to get rid of him.

He continued with his daily schedule in a mockery of what was normal, but now he saw the assassin everywhere, watching him train, following him home, even shadowing Ilrin. He knew what the Council was trying to do: they were trying to get him to use his magic in public, so that they could banish him as they had Alfimir. He resolved not to play their game.

His resolve didn’t last long. Once they realized their tactics weren’t working, the Council commissioned a young elf, Aldir by name, to get close to Ilrin. Through trickery, Aldir managed to make his affection for Ilrin seem genuine, and tricked Dilmir into thinking that she shared it. Dilmir reacted again without thinking, causing a tree branch above Aldir to snap, and fall. Aldir was ready, and was unharmed, but the Council had what they needed. Dilmir was banished the next day.

Now realizing the lengths the Council had gone to, and consumed with anger at them, Dilmir sought out Alfimir, and dueled him. Alfimir was a trained archmage, however, and easily defeated Dilmir. As he prepared to slay him, again a mysterious force intervened.

This time the owner of the force showed himself. Alfimir instantly recognized the elf, and called him by name before being incapacitated: Eltuthar. Having saved his descendent again, Eltuthar brought Dilmir to his sanctuary, Arath Imil. It was here he had retreated to after Sonlen had cursed him. Here, he could study magic, and train those still loyal to him.

Dilmir soon learned the true nature of his magic, how he possessed no form of evil magic, but simply more of the same magic all elves possessed. Eltuthar also showed him why he possessed as much magic as he did: somewhere in the far distant past, all elves had become Cursed. This Curse allowed them only a small amount of magic. Somehow, Eltuthar and his descendants did not have this Curse.

Meanwhile, Alfimir, wounded but not dead, had managed to warn the Council what had happened. They now knew that they must travel to Eltuthar’s sanctuary, and once and for all end the threat his magic posed, by killing him and all of his followers.

Ilrin, when she saw the council’s army preparing, guessed at their purpose, and guessed also that Dilmir might be their target. She rode into the forest in the dead of night, and fled to Eltuthar’s sanctuary, determined to warn Dilmir.

While she arrived in time, the army was right on her heels, and attacked that night. Eltuthar’s sanctuary was burned, and nearly all of his followers were slain. Alfimir came with the army to finish the bloody work he had started, but met Dilmir there, and the two dueled again. This time Dilmir held his own, thanks to Eltuthar’s teachings, but Alfimir used some form of magic Dilmir had never seen, and won once again. Unable to win, Dilmir used his power to transport himself and Eltuthar back to Eld’rin. Ilrin, as a citizen of the city, could not be harmed by the council’s army. She was allowed to return to Eld’rin.

Eltuthar determined to continue searching for the Curse which plagued the elves. If he could but lift it, they would eventually understand their true nature, and stop hunting him and Dilmir. But he couldn’t ask Dilmir to accompany him. Dilmir needed to complete his training at Eld’rin. When he was older, he could join him, but not just yet. Therefore, he formed a plan.

With Dilmir hiding in the shadows, Eltuthar revealed himself in the midst of Eld’rin. He pretended to cast a large spell, drawing all attention to himself. In reality, Dilmir was casting the spell, but the only one to realize what was going on was Ilrin, who saw Dilmir, and wisely said nothing.

Alfimir appeared in Eld’rin, determined to end Eltuthar. He cast spell after spell, but unable to see Dilmir, couldn’t understand why nothing worked. Finally, Dilmir revealed himself, pretending to have just arrived. He pretended to be against Eltuthar, and dueled him as if fighting to protect Eld’rin.

Alfimir guessed what was going on, but was unable to stop it. Eltuthar was ‘forced’ to flee the city, and to the Council, Dilmir appeared to have saved the day. Their laws were binding, and they had no choice but to lift the banishment on Dilmir as a result. Using the same logic, they lifted Alfimir’s banishment as well.

Afterwards, Dilmir, with some help from Ilrin, decided that he had been wrong about his magic. He should never have shunned it, or let the elves tell him it was dark or evil. He had seen and felt what it could truly do, and believed, like Eltuthar, that the elves deserved to feel it as well. With Ilrin on his side, he decided to show the elves the magic, hoping that in time, they would come to see it as he did.

And thus we come to the events of this tale…

For those of you interested, I wanted to explain why I’ve decided to rewrite both this story and its sequel, rather than just reposting them with edits.

This all goes back to the original theme of the trilogy. Shortly after posting the trilogy, I realized that the theme was actually incorrect. If I were to repost the trilogy, I’d have to tweak that theme. I figured it would be easy – most of the theme was packed into an epilogue after the ending in both books. The actual events of the books wouldn’t really impact things that much. So I jotted down what the theme was and what I wanted it to now be, and then started going through the original story, editing as I went.

Unfortunately, the Feylund Trilogy is kind of like the original Star Wars trilogy: sequels weren’t planned from the start, and when they were added, plot holes were created. I started to see these plot holes in the original, and the changes I was making to the theme were unfortunately only making more of them. When I tried to fix these issues, other things started to not make sense, until I just had a huge mess on my hands.

At one point I even gave up, opting to actually rewrite Dilmir instead, and start over from there. I was never happy with the story that idea produced, and fortunately scrapped it a few chapters in.

I decided to go back to this story, and resigned myself to doing some heavier edits. I finally managed to cobble together an amalgamation of original bits and new bits into a workable story, and finally thought my job was done.

I like to set a story aside after I’ve written it, turn my mind elsewhere for a day or two, and come back and proofread with a fresh eye. I did that with this amalgamation. But the longer I let it sit, the more and more flaws I found. The plot holes were still cropping up, and a lot of things just didn’t make sense. A lot of this was due to Dilmir, which hadn’t bothered to explain critical things in enough clarity.

Eventually I just decided to do the whole thing over. I re-developed the story, built it back from the ground up, and then rewrote the whole thing. I’m glad I did, because the result is far better than what I had before. I was able to actually fix the plot holes instead of trying to patch them, and as a whole, the story just made a lot more sense as a cohesive unit.

That story is what you are about to read.

Now, this change in plans also means that I will have to rewrite the final story in the trilogy. There were too many changes in this story not to. But this is a good thing. I feel the final story will be the best of the trilogy, and am looking forward to writing it.

But for now, read The Curse of Feylund, and let me know what you think.

Aseleth, one and all! Greetings! Welcome to The Curse of Feylund.

There’s a whole story behind how this fan fiction came to be, and I could doubtless go on for several paragraphs detailing it. But I won’t do that. You didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on about my writing adventures. You came here to read, and I’ll let you get to that soon. First though, there are some things you need to know.

Firstly, this story is a direct sequel to Dilmir: A Tale of Feylund. Dilmir was written back in 2013, and two sequels quickly followed, together making up the Feylund trilogy. However, shortly after posting those stories, I decided to delete them. The theme didn’t sit right with me, and I believed at the time that I would convert those stories into novels one day.

I now know that is very unlikely. In mid-2019, I decided to repost Dilmir, the first story in the trilogy. I said that I would have to look at the two sequels, and possibly edit them, before I felt comfortable reposting them.

And finally, following some world-class hemming and hawing, we’re here. I eventually had to just rewrite the entire story, instead of my original plan of merely editing the original sequel. I also plan on rewriting the final story in the trilogy, finally posting the Feylund trilogy once more in its entirety. If you’re interested in exactly why I’ve decided to take this somewhat more laborious path, there will be an Author’s Note directly following this Introduction, explaining just that.

Onto this story itself. It’s usually around this point in the introduction that I start warning you about what you’re going to read. I’m not going to do that this time. This story has no major flaws that I’m aware of, and should just be a good straightforward read. Obviously it has some issues, but these are minor. This story is a sequel, and there is a recap of Dilmir following this Introduction, which should serve to jog your memory. If you’ve never read Dilmir though, or if it’s been a long time, I suggest you do so before reading this story. There are just some things in the story which I can’t convey completely in a recap.

That’s about all there is to say though. Sit back, allow your mind to immerse yourself in the world of Feylund, and prepare for a tale of elves and magic.